


Snowfall

by Essie_Cat



Series: Tea and Cake [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Christmas, Chubby Kink, Chubby Theodore, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Soft Draco Malfoy, Teasing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie_Cat/pseuds/Essie_Cat
Summary: “What do you mean you don’t like mince pies? You eat anything and everything.”Theo raises an eyebrow. “Are you calling me greedy, Draco?”Theo gains some holiday weight, Draco grapples with his feelings, and they bicker about Christmas food.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott
Series: Tea and Cake [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041034
Comments: 8
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This follows on from [Roses and Rust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844616/chapters/65495743) but can probably be read on its own if you’re just looking for some festive-chub-with-feelings (that seems like its own genre, right?) 
> 
> There's some teasing in here that could be interpreted as fat-shaming — it’s all very consensual, but if that’s something you’d rather avoid, here’s your warning. This fic is mostly just Draco and Theo being very soft, though. Hope you enjoy!

Draco’s clearing up when Theo flings the door open, the bell tinkling wildly, and Mara the cocker spaniel sprints inside. 

She looks like she splashed through every possible puddle on the way home, carefully choosing all of the muddiest ones. Theo doesn’t look to have fared much better, his trousers flecked with brown splodges from ankle to knee. Clearly lacking in respect for the tea shop that bears her name, Mara proceeds to shake droplets of mud and water everywhere. 

“She didn’t give you any trouble, I hope,” Draco says dryly, setting the last of the cups on their shelf behind the counter, removing his apron and hanging it on its peg. He gives in to Mara’s whines, leaning down to scratch her behind the ears, and muttering a quick charm to remove the worst of the mud from her fur.

Theo gives Mara an impossibly soft look. “She was a very good dog, as always. Though I’m not sure the squirrels would agree.” He pulls off his hat, coat and scarf — the bright green one he seems inexplicably fond of and that Draco hasn’t managed to steal, incinerate and act innocent about yet — and runs a hand through his dark hair. 

Draco brings over a pot of tea and they settle on one of the sofas at the back of the empty tea shop. Theo cradles the mug in both hands, clearly appreciating its warmth. In turn, Draco takes a moment to appreciate Theo and how good he looks, cheeks bright pink from the cold, woolly jumper pulled snug across his belly. A lot of his clothes are looking tighter these days, Draco has noticed. Christmas is still a week away, but Theo has been taking advantage of any and all opportunities to celebrate the holidays with good food and drink.

Admittedly, plenty of that food and drink has come from Draco himself. But Theo isn’t complaining, and Draco certainly isn’t.

So it feels natural to set a plate of mince pies down on the table along with the tea, expecting that Theo will easily work his way through them. Draco’s had rave reviews from a few of the regular customers — Betty had taken a box home for her grandchildren; Ameena had praised the experimental batch he’d made with almond and amaretto; and Hamish had for some reason _dunked his in a cup of tea,_ which Draco had never seen the like of and hoped never to see again. When he’d told the three of them that he was closing up for the year and _Mara's_ would be open again in January, each of them had cheerily wished him a Merry Christmas.

He expects similar enthusiasm about the pies from Theo, who is never shy about expressing his love of Draco’s cooking. So it’s positively shocking when Theo focuses on his tea and all but ignores the plate of food before him.

“Mince pie?” Draco offers. It’s not that he _wants_ Theo to eat them — Theo certainly doesn’t need his encouragement to stay well-fed — but it’s such unusual behaviour that Draco wonders whether he ought to be concerned.

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Theo takes a sip of his tea.

Draco stares at him. “You’ll… Are you feeling all right?”

He laughs. “Bloody hell, Draco. I’m fine. I just don’t really like mince pies.”

Draco looks at him askance. “What do you mean?”

“The texture’s weird. They taste sort of sweet, but not in a good way, and sort of alcoholic, but not in a good way. What is there to like?”

“But you eat anything and everything.”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “Are you calling me _greedy,_ Draco?”

Draco gives Theo’s stomach — which is looking particularly round at the present moment, sitting comfortably on his thighs — a pointed look. Then an affectionate pat for good measure. “I would never suggest such a thing.”

“Little shit,” Theo grunts, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

He sets his tea down on the table and pulls Draco towards him. Draco hardly needs much encouragement to climb into his lap. He rests his hands on the crest of Theo’s gut, soft and solid and pushing between them, feeling how much the wool of his jumper is straining over the widest part of his midsection.

When he’d first walked into Draco’s shop all those months ago, Theo’s wardrobe had consisted largely of shirts with straining buttons and jumpers that clung enticingly to his love handles, and Draco had barely been able to drag his eyes away. He now suspects that Theo had piled on some extra weight shortly before this, the gain catching him by surprise, and he’d simply ignored his clothes when they started to pinch. Since then, he’d sized up his jeans and shirts and robes, which fit him well over most of spring and summer. As winter drew closer, however, Theo seemed to approach the season like a bear preparing for hibernation, and his clothes showed off every pound of it. 

Clearing his throat, Draco says, “This is getting ridiculous.” He indicates the green jumper, plucking at the taut material.

Theo looks down at himself, the extra flesh under his chin pooching out as he does so. It’s mostly disguised by his beard, unless you’re looking for it, which Draco is. “It fits just fine, thank you.”

His blue eyes meet Draco’s, looking gently amused. Encouraged, Draco nudges the hem of his jumper upwards, pinching at the t-shirt underneath that’s stretched over him like a second skin. “And this?”

“What about it?”

“I imagine it was a better fit ten pounds ago. Fifteen, perhaps.”

“It fits,” Theo insists. “It’s fine as it is.”

“Are you wearing anything in your size?” Draco crooks his fingers, with some difficulty, into the waistband of Theo’s trousers. “These are comfortable, are they?”

“Very,” Theo says, which has to be a baldfaced lie. His cheeks are flushed pink, though whether that’s still from the cold of the outdoors, or from the attention Draco’s paying him — the heady combination of mocking words and gentle touches and adoring glances — is difficult to say.

Draco opens his mouth to speak again, but he loses his nerve. Instead, he takes a handful of the softness at Theo’s lower belly, giving it a gentle squeeze. Theo makes a small noise of contentment. 

It took Draco a while to settle into things with Theo. The idea of sharing his space, his time, himself, with another person. The idea of Theo, who is both so very like and so very unlike the boy Draco had grown up with. And _this_ — the teasing words that leave him breathless, the food he pours his time and effort into, Theo’s weight slowly creeping upwards — still feels new to him. Still gets him easily flustered, even as it sends electricity sparking through him. 

In fairness, he gets flustered just thinking about Theo in general, sometimes. He’ll be at work and Theo will walk through the door and he’ll almost drop the tray of drinks he’s carrying. They’ll be playing board games with Daphne and Greg, or at the pub with Pansy and Blaise, and Draco will suddenly realise that he has completely lost track of the conversation, that he’s been too busy watching Theo like some sort of lovestruck teenager. When they’re alone, and he gets to touch Theo like this and have Theo look at him like he’s all that matters in the world, it’s enough to take his breath away.

It’s completely fucking pathetic, and it’s utterly wonderful, and in moments like this when everything just feels simple and easy and obvious, it’s almost too much.

Theo shifts a little underneath him. His hands are on Draco’s thighs, secure, protective. With a lilt to his voice and a crooked smile, he asks, “Shall I drag you upstairs, Draco?”

“I — I think that would be prudent.”

*

Daphne turns over her sheet of parchment, clearing her throat dramatically. She shoots a glare at Draco, and continues, “Eleven: all sexual activity will be restricted to Theo’s bedroom. Twelve: all sexual activity will be accompanied by enough spells to render you silent so I’m not scarred for life. Thirteen…”

Draco grits his teeth and tries to summon patience that doesn’t exactly come naturally to him. On the couch next to him, Theo is nodding along soberly, peppering Daphne’s instructions with little noises of agreement, the occasional “Yes, good point” and “Absolutely, Daph” as though she is being nothing but reasonable.

For the two weeks his tea shop is closed over Christmas, Draco is taking a break from his flat in London and staying at Theo’s house in Manchester. The house which, unfortunately, he shares with Daphne.

“She’s not a big fan of house guests,” Theo had warned. “It’s a big deal that she’s making an exception for you. So be nice.”

Even now, Draco isn’t quite sure where he stands with Daphne. They spend a lot of time together, but only when they’re all hanging out as a group or when he stays over at Theo’s. He suspects sometimes that she doesn’t like him all that much — or at least, that she’s the most reluctant of his old school friends to overlook his past and the five years where he tried to pretend that none of them existed. 

As far as Draco can tell, the only points in his favour are that he comes with Mara (who Daphne dotes on almost as much as Theo does) and that he offered to cook Christmas dinner. He doesn’t cook quite as well as he bakes, but Theo and Daphne had looked so relieved when he offered that he almost felt like a functioning human being who has his life together.

He begins to regret his generosity, however, when he attempts to engage the pair of them in a discussion about said Christmas dinner. 

“As long as the gravy’s good,” is Daphne’s only opinion on the matter. She’s curled up in an armchair, her sketchbook on her knee, pencil gliding over the paper in a way that Draco assumes is artistic. “No pressure, Draco, but if the gravy isn’t up to scratch then the whole day will be ruined.”

“What’s the dessert situation?” Theo asks, finishing off his second cinnamon roll, his fingers sticky with icing. Draco had taken them out of the oven barely half an hour before, filling the house with sugary warmth. He’s sharing a couch with Theo, feet resting on his lap, and had watched Theo work his way through one of the buns, unfurling the dough from its spiral and tearing off small chunks, before wordlessly handing over the rest of his own. 

“You know what the dessert is,” Draco tells him, leaning down to rub Mara’s belly where she’s flopped on the floor by his chair. She keeps cocking her head at the stout Christmas tree by the window, letting out disgruntled little _ruffs_ as the lights twinkle in her direction.

Theo scrunches his nose. “So it’s too late to veto the Christmas pudding?”

Theo’s lack of interest in Christmas food is a constant source of bemusement to Draco. As well as disliking mince pies, he’s also ambivalent about such delicacies as turkey and stuffing, eggnog and mulled wine, stollen and Christmas pudding. Draco’s starting to think he doesn’t even _know_ the man. 

“Yes. I’ve already bought all the fruit. It is _traditional_ and it will be _delicious,”_ Draco says hotly.

“Only you want it,” Theo points out. He starts to reach for another roll and then, possibly due to Daphne’s watchful eye, seems to think better of it. “Neither of us are going to eat it. We’ve made this very clear.”

“Then both of you are _missing out.”_

Theo is looking infuriatingly fond of him. With a rather Theo-like smirk, Daphne says, “I know I should be used to this by now, but it’s still weird seeing you so _domestic,_ Draco.”

He glares at her for that. Theo unsuccessfully bites back a smile. Draco taps his foot against Theo’s stomach in retaliation, earning him a wounded look. Eyebrow raised, Draco reaches for the plate and hands his boyfriend another cinnamon roll. 

*

A few nights into his stay at Theo’s, Draco finds himself wide awake, listless, staring at the ceiling. It’s not unusual for him to sleep poorly. There were times, shortly after the Dark Lord’s downfall, when he’d wake up sweating, shaking, screaming. Those days are long past, but it’s still not uncommon for him to lie restless for hours, tossing and turning, or to fall into an uneasy sleep only to wake a couple of hours later. Theo sleeps like a log, and there are worse things to do than lying awake next to him, enjoying his warm, comforting presence, listening to his steady breathing. 

Tonight, he slips out of bed, careful not to wake Theo, and heads downstairs. He’s sipping a glass of water in the kitchen, leaning against the sideboard, when Daphne stumbles out of the fireplace. She nearly falls over at the sight of him.

“Bloody hell, Draco, I thought you were a burglar,” she says, glaring at him in accusation, clutching her chest dramatically. “A scantily dressed burglar.”

Draco glances down at himself. He’s in pinstriped pyjama trousers and, admittedly, is not wearing a shirt. But it's nothing scandalous. He’s a little self-conscious about his arm, his fingers twitching towards his tattoo and the scar underneath that it doesn’t entirely conceal. But he reminds himself that firstly, it’s none of Daphne’s business, and secondly, she almost certainly doesn’t care.

She smirks, giving him a swift once over with her eyes. “Theo’s a lucky boy, isn’t he?”

Draco purses his lips at her, crossing his arms over his bare chest. Is she _drunk?_ He knew she’d been out for dinner with Pansy, but dinner had clearly spiraled into something that involved her stumbling home at one in the morning seeming distinctly merry.

“Good night?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It was fun. Pansy says hi. And Merry Christmas. Well, technically she said _yuletide felicitations,_ but I told her I wouldn’t be repeating that.” She sits down on the kitchen table, crossing her legs underneath her, the long skirt of her robes pooling across the tabletop. 

Draco downs the rest of his water, pretending that Daphne isn’t watching him like a hawk, and prepares to slink back upstairs to bed. But before he can make his excuses, she says, as though it’s a natural segue, “So how’s everything with you and Theo?”

Draco heartily wishes he had drunk his water much more quickly. Thrown by the bluntness of her question, he says, rather stiffly, “Fine, thank you.”

“Is it?”

She’s looking up at him expectantly. He can’t fathom why. Neither of them are the type to engage in one a.m. heart-to-hearts, and certainly not with each other.

“Where are you going with this, Daphne?”

She says, “Theo’s putting on weight again.”

People don’t give Theo a hard time about his weight very often. Daphne in particular is never critical of him, as such, and would swiftly take down anyone who genuinely hurt his feelings. But it’s hardly a secret that she thinks he should lose it — because, in her mind, who wouldn’t want to? Theo seems happy enough to roll his eyes at her, and humours her by eating whatever calorie-controlled meals she cooks for them both, and mostly respects her ban on sugar by only eating obscene amounts of cake when he’s staying at Draco’s. 

Still, Draco is immediately defensive. A little sharply, he says, “Perhaps. What of it?”

“I thought he might not, now. I thought you might prefer that he didn’t.”

“You think I'm not happy with him? I want him to change?”

Daphne shrugs. “He gets misty-eyed every time he talks about you. He’s all over you the second you walk into a room. And you’re … well, you don’t and you’re not. Maybe you’re not like that, and that’s fine. But maybe you’re just not like that with him.”

“Daphne —”

“You’d better not be messing him around, is what I’m saying.”

He stares at her, astonished that she would say it. The instinct is there in him to find something sharp to say and throw it right back at her, to find something that will hurt and to use it, to escalate this into a proper fight they’re both dying to win. 

But she’s clearly had a few drinks. He is a guest in her house. Theo won’t be pleased if he shouts at her. 

“I’m sure Theo would be very grateful for your concern,” he says icily, crossing his arms, nails digging into his skin. 

He can see, from Daphne’s perspective, why he might seem a little cold. He isn’t good with public displays of affection. He’s more likely to say something sarcastic to Theo than something affectionate, especially in front of other people. But he thought Theo understood that. Thought he didn’t mind. And Theo certainly knows that his weight isn’t a factor in this, even if Daphne might think it is. 

Draco remembers being with Pansy back in their Hogwarts days. How she’d spend all her time draped over his arm, fussing over his clothes, playing with his hair; how he’d pull her onto his knee in the common room, kiss her obnoxiously, publicly; how all the guys in his dorm, including Theo, definitely heard them having embarrassing adolescent sex as often as was practically possible. He made a point of showing her off, displaying her like a prize. She did the same with him, in all fairness, wanted everyone to know that Draco was hers. 

He and Pansy don’t really acknowledge it these days. It’s all just a mildly embarrassing thing that happened a long time ago. But he wonders if she and Daphne have been talking about it tonight, gossiping about him and Theo, highlighting the contrast. 

“We’d still talk to you, you know,” Daphne says. “We’re not just putting up with you for Theo’s sake. Well, I might not, if Theo didn’t want me to,” she says thoughtfully, and Draco supposes he has to appreciate her candour, “but Greg, Pansy, Blaise, Millie — I’m pretty sure they still would.”

His stomach squirms. The idea hadn’t even occurred to him. That anyone might think he was using Theo as a way of ingratiating himself back into the old gang. That, if things went sour with him and Theo, he might lose touch with them again altogether.

“I can assure you, I’m much more interested in what Theo thinks of me than what you do,” he tells her, his tone perhaps crossing the line from sharp into spiteful. She doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, she looks almost satisfied.

“Glad to hear it.” She pauses, then says, “He loves you, you know. So don’t fucking hurt him.”

His mouth feels very dry. He doesn’t say anything, a hundred thoughts crashing off the walls of his skull. 

Then he hears footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Theo pushes open the door and pads into the room. He looks sleepy and soft, his hair rumpled, wearing tartan pyjama trousers and a black t-shirt perhaps half a size too small. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at them both accusingly. “Am I the only one in this house who values a good night’s sleep?”

He wraps an arm around Draco’s waist in greeting. Normally Draco would lean in against him, rest a hand on his stomach without thinking about it. But with Daphne there, he finds himself fighting that instinct, as if it would look like he was trying too hard, like he wanted to prove something to her. Perhaps Theo notices his reticence; he gives Draco’s side an affectionate rub but then removes his arm. 

“You look like you’ve had a good night,” he tells Daphne. “Are you ogling my boyfriend, Greengrass?”

“I’m trying very hard not to,” she protests. “He’s the one strutting around half-naked. Make him cover up.”

“I’m right here,” Draco says testily.

“Yes, and you’re thoroughly indecent,” Theo tells him. He still looks tired, but his eyes are sparkling, and despite the jumble of thoughts in his head, Draco finds himself smiling. “Right, come on, both of you. _Bed.”_ He pours Daphne a large glass of water and chivvies them both up the stairs, flapping his arms. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks Draco once they’re alone. Casually, quietly, in that voice he uses where he tries to sound like he isn’t worrying.

“I’m fine. Just wanted a drink.”

Theo hums in a way that suggests he is not entirely convinced. Draco rests a hand on Theo’s tummy where it slumps on the bed between them. His t-shirt is already rucked up, exposing a pale strip of soft belly, and Draco encourages it still higher, nudging the hem upwards so it sits under his chest. He runs a hand reverently over the warm skin.

“This doesn’t count as going to sleep, Draco,” Theo complains, even as he shuffles a little closer to him on the bed, arches a little into his touch. Draco smiles in the darkness.

A little while later, once Theo has finally insisted that it’s _really fucking late, Draco,_ Draco lies tucked up against him, head resting on Theo’s chest. Even as he listens to Theo’s steady breathing, he hears Daphne’s voice thudding in his ears.

_He loves you, you know._

*

It’s a little under a year since Theo first strolled back into Draco’s life, and around six months since they properly fell into something that might be called a relationship. They have, intentionally and unintentionally, taken things slowly at various points. It took them months to even sleep together, for heaven’s sake, even though Draco would quite happily have climbed Theo like a tree the first time he laid eyes on him.

Draco doesn’t know if there’s a correct time to start throwing around heavy words like _love._ He has precious little to compare this with. He’s never wanted to put up with someone for as long as he’s put up with Theo. He’s never had someone who wanted to tolerate him for this long, either. 

But Theo hasn’t said it. Perhaps he doesn’t mean it. Draco just has Daphne’s word on the subject.

She catches him in the kitchen late the next morning, looking a little sheepish. 

“About last night,” she says, making herself a green smoothie, her tone overly airy in a way that suggests she feels guilty, “I … crossed a line. I mean, I stand by everything I said. But I should probably have said it differently.” 

He inclines his head to indicate he accepts her not-quite-apology.

She hesitates, looking at him over her vile green drink. Then, her gaze defiant, she adds, “Theo’s been really good for you. Anyone can see that. I want to know that you’re good for him, too. That’s all.”

His chest feels a little tight, but it’s not much, nothing he can’t handle. The part of him that, last night, had writhed and snarled — had wanted to unsheathe its talons and swipe at her — lies dormant today. 

Today, he finds it easy enough to say, “I hope I am,” and to move the conversation along, to offer her a cup of tea and some pancakes, to tease her with Theo when he joins them downstairs.

_Theo._

Draco is staying in his house until New Year’s. They’re cooking Christmas dinner together. Theo has a key to his flat and walks his dog. Theo puts up with him when he’s irritable, makes him laugh when he’s had a long day at work. Holds his hand and kisses his hair and calms him when he’s anxious, grounds him when the world feels like it’s too vast and too hot and too much. 

_He loves you._

But Theo is big on feelings and honesty and healthy open dialogue. He likes to talk about _everything._ So perhaps Daphne’s wrong. If Theo meant it, wouldn’t he say it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> NB: I didn’t mention this in 'Roses and Rust' and I don’t actually describe it here either, but this whole time I’ve been imagining Theo with a Scottish accent similar to Richard Madden’s. So if this enhances your enjoyment at all, you’re welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco tries to talk about his feelings, not very successfully. Theo is a good boyfriend, and also kind of a tease.

Draco is red-faced and panting when he arrives back at the house, a good few seconds after Daphne. He works out fairly regularly and likes to think he’s in decent shape, but Daphne is a bloody _machine._ He’s used to running with Mara, who is considerably less competitive. 

It’s infuriating, and Daphne is very smug about it, but it’ll do him good to be pushed like this, he supposes. Plus, he’s trying to get on better with Daphne, and this is an obvious thing for them to do together. 

Theo is in his shed in the garden, working on his potions. Through two sets of windows, he raises a hand in greeting when he sees Draco in the kitchen. Daphne pats Draco on the back, tells him he did a good job keeping up, and goes upstairs to stretch and shower. Draco gulps down a glass of water as Theo steps into the house in a blast of cold air. 

“You look like Daphne’s been torturing you,” he says cheerfully. “I’m impressed by your dedication. I’m sure most people just give up at this point. And then regret everything and set punishing New Year’s resolutions.”

_Well, not all of us can afford to pile it on and burst out of our clothes by Boxing Day,_ is what Draco thinks but doesn’t say. He’s sorely tempted, but finds himself getting flustered, and says instead, “I’m sure you would be merciless if I got fat over Christmas.”

Theo grins. “I’d be about as nice to you as you are to me. You would look adorable.” He steps closer, his hands ghosting over Draco’s torso, considerably firmer and flatter than his own. “You’re pretty adorable already, though.”

Draco glares at him, not convinced that _adorable_ is the sort of image he’s trying to achieve. But he lets Theo kiss the scowl off his face. “I need to shower,” he says, without much conviction, as Theo starts kissing his neck instead. 

“Daphne’s in there,” Theo points out, directing Draco carefully but decisively against the kitchen counter. 

His grip is firm, enjoyably possessive; his lips are soft and insistent, his beard a pleasant bristle against Draco’s skin. He smells like cold air and something sweet and smoky, perhaps from one of his potions. It’s gratifying that Draco can return home bright red and sweating and with all the evidence of how much less fit he is than Daphne, and Theo still wants him like this.

“Are we going to break one of Daphne’s house rules?” Draco asks.

“We can do, if you like.”

_He loves you, you know._

If Theo does mean it, why hasn’t he said it? Perhaps he’s afraid it would be too much for Draco, too real and too serious, that it would scare him away like a skittish woodland creature. Perhaps he’s afraid that, if he flung the words out there, Draco wouldn’t say them back. 

“Theo,” Draco starts to say, caught up in a rush of affection, and the feel of Theo’s hands on him, and probably a little lightheaded from his run, “I …” 

Theo’s blue eyes are on his, curious and attentive. He feels suddenly breathless. “Ah — you look nice.”

Theo looks down at the old pair of robes he always wears when he’s working on his potions, splattered with colourful stains where he’s spilled an ingredient or something has exploded on him. Draco can’t help but notice they’re a little tight around his middle.

“Um. Thank you. You too.” 

He sounds amused, and Draco feels unreasonably defensive. “Forgive me for trying to pay you a compliment,” he says. “Who says I can’t be nice to you?”

“You can be,” Theo acknowledges. “Whether you generally _are_ or not is another thing altogether…”

He knows Theo is only teasing, but he can’t ignore the self-conscious squirming in his gut. He wonders if there’s a way for him to rewind, to recover the moment. But then Theo’s kissing him again, and it’s really rather difficult to focus on anything else. 

*

When Theo brings up the Christmas pudding situation yet again, Draco finally caves and agrees to serve two desserts. On the condition that Theo makes the other one. 

(Daphne, who apparently has no interest in eating dessert even at Christmas, looks physically pained as Draco and Theo bicker about it and refuses to take sides in the matter.)

“It definitely doesn’t look like the picture.” Theo stares down at the contents of the bowl in betrayal. “Okay, Draco, I take it back, I would like your opinion after all.”

From the other side of the kitchen, Draco fixes him with a haughty look. “I wouldn’t want to _micro-manage.”_

“I take it back, I said. Can you check it, at least?”

“I have every faith that you are capable of following a simple recipe, Theodore. It’s like making a potion. But tastes better.” 

Theo huffs at him and squints down at the recipe again. After Draco’s previous attempts at assistance were so rudely spurned, he had hopped up onto the kitchen counter, crossed his arms and refused to do anything more, watching and judging and pointedly not helping. 

Theo eventually gets the gloopy mixture into a tin and in the oven, grumbling at Draco under his breath. He’s got a bit of flour in his beard, and he’s wearing an apron at Draco’s insistence, round and comfortable over his tummy, and he’s really far too adorable to stay annoyed with for long.

“Are you finished being all smug and haughty?” Theo asks, moving closer to where Draco is sitting on the counter, legs swinging. “Oh, wait, the answer to that is _never.”_

Draco parts his legs slightly, and Theo steps between them, resting his hands on Draco’s thighs. There’s a limit to how close he can get without his belly bumping into the counter, so Draco leans forward a little, reaching out to brush the flour from his beard, furrowing his brow as though the task is a grave inconvenience to him. 

“So are you going to put me out of my misery and tell me whether this bloody cake will be edible?”

Draco hums. He squeezes his legs against Theo’s soft sides. “We’ll see in twenty-eight minutes when it comes out of the oven, won’t we?”

“Git,” Theo tells him, running his hands up and down Draco’s thighs, giving a flash of his crooked smile.

_Theo’s been really good for you. Anyone can see that._

“Are you okay?” Draco finds himself asking, the words tumbling out. 

“Um. Yeah, Draco, I’m fine.” He looks taken aback, a little amused. “I’m not that invested in the cake, you know. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll live.” He pats his belly, as if he doesn’t know perfectly well how distracting Draco will find that. “Probably wouldn’t kill me to skip dessert for once.”

“Not about the cake,” Draco says, trying to focus. “In general. And … about us. We’re okay, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, I think we are,” Theo says, his hands back on Draco’s thighs, but his touch is reassuring now rather than teasing, the way it is when Draco gets anxious about something and Theo tries to bring him back to himself, tries to ground him. “Do you think we are?”

“Yes. But I…” Draco isn’t sure why he’s still battling on with this, the words stumbling over each other, his brain desperately uncooperative. “I want to be good for you.”

Theo gives him a look that is positively deviant. “You want me to tell you you’re a good boy, Draco, is that it?”

_Merlin._ Draco tries valiantly to pretend that just hearing those words from Theo didn’t _do things_ to him. He can’t afford to get off track again. Not that any of this conversation has exactly been on track. 

His brain battles on pointlessly for a moment, then he hastily tries to brush the conversation aside, as if all of this was just a throwaway comment that doesn’t mean anything. But Theo kisses him, ever so gently, like he knows Draco is attempting to do something and not quite managing it, and like he doesn’t mind, like he’s pleased with Draco just for trying.

_He loves you._

“Theo,” Draco tries, a little breathless, into his ear. “I —” 

There’s a crash and a thud and a whimpering noise from the living room. 

They break apart, and both of them rush in to see Mara looking guilty, the orchid on the windowsill lying prone on the floor, and shards of pot and lumps of soil scattered across the carpet. 

Theo rescues his orchid and Draco reprimands his dog, but if before seemed like the right moment for something to happen, that moment firmly passes.

*

As Theo heads to the bar to buy another round of drinks, Draco heartily wishes he’d stayed behind for a quiet night in with Daphne and Mara. He hadn’t wanted to go, had known he wasn't in the right frame of mind for it. But Theo wanted to, so he’d agreed, and now he’s stuck in a pub in Knockturn Alley feeling anxious as hell and trying not to snap at everyone around him. 

He knows the others think he’s being a miserable sod, and he sits fiddling with the sleeve of his robes, with the strap of his watch, feeling brittle and frayed in that way that sneaks up on him sometimes. Around the table, Greg and Millie chat about werewolf rights, and Pansy and her girlfriend giggle to each other about something he can’t make out. He feels pathetically grateful when Theo returns with the drinks and sits back down next to him, and he hates that, hates that he can’t cope with this unless Theo’s there to hold his hand and walk him through it like a child.

Pansy’s hand is sitting high up Ada’s leg, and Ada nips at her ear after she tells a joke that Draco doesn’t laugh at. He feels unreasonably furious with the pair of them, as though they’re doing it just to spite him. The room feels hot and loud and suffocating. Theo tries to take his hand under the table and he snatches it away.

When Theo makes their excuses a short while later, Draco avoids everyone’s eye, sure that Greg and Millie and Pansy and Ada know exactly why they’re leaving and they’re all judging him for it.

“You didn’t have to go just because of me,” Draco snaps when they get back to Manchester. “You could’ve stayed.” 

“I was ready to leave.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Draco —” Theo tries.

“I’m fine, all right?” 

“Okay. I’m going to make some tea.”

“I don’t want a fucking cup of tea!”

“Okay,” Theo says evenly, and goes to the kitchen while Draco paces in the living room. 

He forces himself to slow down, to stop. He focuses on the orchid on the windowsill, recently smashed and restored, and starts counting the petals, trying to focus on that and nothing else. There are twelve flowers, five petals each; one flower has dropped off, lying helpless by the side of the pot.

“Sorry,” he tells Theo when he returns from the kitchen with two mugs of tea. “I've been stressed today, and I should have told you, and I didn’t handle it well, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“Apology accepted.” He sets one of the mugs down on the coffee table.

Draco begins to reach for the tea, but doesn’t trust his hands to hold it steady, so he crosses his arms instead. “I know I’m … difficult,” he says stiffly. Theo looks at him over his tea, blue eyes steady and reassuring, anchoring him to the moment. “And you put up with me, and you take care of me, and I … I really appreciate that. I appreciate you, and I want you to be happy, and I —” 

He forces himself to stop before he blurts out anything else, all the thoughts he's been holding onto for the past few days threatening to spill out of him. The words seem to hang uncomfortably in the air, mocking him. Theo’s eyes on him are gentle and utterly _knowing,_ and that’s terrifying, but Draco tries not to flinch away from it, tries to accept the understanding that Theo wants to give him. 

Theo says, “If you’re having a shit day, that’s all right. You can tell me, and we can talk about it, or I can distract you from it, or I can leave you well alone, whatever you want. That doesn’t make you difficult.”

Draco squirms a little, but can feel some of the tightness in his chest starting to ease. 

“I mean, you _are_ difficult,” Theo continues, the corners of his mouth twitching. “But mostly because you spend forever getting ready in the morning, and you’re a sore loser when we play boardgames, and you won’t let me let Mara get into bed with us.”

“Because she needs _rules_ and _boundaries.”_

Theo grins. “So you’ve said.”

He takes hold of Draco’s hand and starts tracing gentle circles with his thumb. “For the record, you take very good care of me too, you know.”

Draco feels himself going brittle again. “You don’t have to say that —”

“You think you don’t? Well, then. Thank you for offering to make Christmas dinner, and saving me and Daphne from eating soggy sprouts and overcooked turkey. Thank you for making an effort with Daph, even though you two have your differences — yeah, I’ve noticed you asking about her paintings, and offering to go running with her, and drinking those awful green smoothies she makes. Thank you for coming to stay here, and spoiling me rotten, and giving me a reason to actually be excited about Christmas for once.”

Draco knows his face is absolutely _scarlet._

Theo says, “If you want me to be happy — well, mission accomplished. You make me really fucking happy, Draco.”

“Well,” Draco manages to get out. He swallows. "All right then." He links his fingers through Theo’s, trying to look cool and dignified, unsure where to go from here. He picks up the mug of tea with his free hand, carefully taking a sip.

A while later, with Draco’s head resting on his stomach and his fingers carding through Draco’s hair, Theo asks, “Is there any of that chocolate loaf left?” 

“It’s called babka. Do you have any idea how long I spent trying to get it right? The least you can do is remember its name.”

“Is that a yes?”

Draco sighs heavily, grabs his wand from the table, and summons the remains of the babka from the kitchen. He settles back down against Theo, a plush and comfortable pillow, and angles his face away to try and disguise his smile.

*

After charming the plates to wash and dry themselves, Draco heads upstairs, his mind consumed with thoughts of what a bloody nice kitchen Theo and Daphne have, far superior to the one in his own flat, and how he should really splash out in the New Year and have his re-done. 

Then he steps into Theo’s bedroom and all thoughts of home improvements are wiped from his head as he sees his boyfriend trying and failing to button a pair of trousers. Draco freezes in the doorway.

“Close the door, if you’d be so kind?” Theo says, cool and casual, as though he hadn’t been caught attempting to squeeze himself into a pair of trousers that are much too small. “Daphne would be so bloody smug if she saw me like this. And probably gouge her own eyes out.”

Draco hurriedly closes the bedroom door and endeavours to prevent his jaw from dropping as Theo resumes his struggle with the button. He wonders when was the last time Theo wore these jeans. He mostly wears his Muggle clothes when he and Draco are in London; recently, he’s been in robes, most of which fit him quite well, and comfy pyjamas for their lazy days around the house.

“Having some trouble?” Draco asks, when his brain and mouth are able to work together to form the question.

Theo says primly, “It would be easier if you gave me a hand, rather than standing over there gawking.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “It would be easier if you hadn’t eaten so much at dinner.”

“It wasn’t _that_ much.” 

Draco had been sitting opposite Theo as he ate said dinner — a hearty shepherd’s pie with carrots, peas and crusty bread on the side, followed by slices of the caramel cheesecake Draco had made that morning — so he knows for a fact that, by any objective standard, it _was_ that much. 

He rests a hand on the top of Theo’s belly. He presses down gently, feeling how firm and full he is under the padding. “Respectfully, I disagree.” He adds, “It would also be easier if you hadn’t made such a _habit_ of taking second helpings at every meal.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious, Draco,” Theo says in a cool, dignified tone completely at odds with the adorable pink flush of his cheeks. “Where would I be without your sharp insight?”

Draco lets his hand slide down Theo’s belly to where it’s still plush and pliable at the bottom, pushing stubbornly between the sides of his unfastened trousers. He pushes the t-shirt up so it sits under his soft pecs and he can get a proper look. A few new stretchmarks have sprung up there recently, sharp pink against the faded silver ones. He slides his hand along Theo’s soft, sensitive underbelly, lifting it a little as if appraising it, feeling how heavy he’s gotten.

Theo’s breath hitches. _“Draco.”_

Draco smirks at him. He takes hold of the two flaps of material that do not look like they have any intention of meeting. 

“Suck in, at least,” Draco tells him, and Theo obliges (for all the good it does) as he attempts to fasten the button in the manner of someone trying to slam a door shut against a howling gale. He succeeds in getting the zip partway up, and at one point almost gets the button to fasten under Theo’s tummy. But apparently the movement this requires is ticklish and Theo squirms, letting out a huff of air, and his belly rounds out to its usual proportions, rendering Draco’s efforts completely void.

“Well, I’ve done all I can,” Draco says with mock-exasperation. He gives Theo’s stomach a pat. “You’re on your own.” 

Theo scowls at him and starts shimmying out of the jeans. Draco admires the jiggle of his thighs as he does so. He asks, “Why don’t you stretch them? Does _engorgio_ work on clothes?”

“I may have done that a couple of times already,” he admits. Draco tries to pretend that the idea of Theo having to stretch his clothes multiple times has had _no effect_ on him whatsoever. “You can only do it so often before the fabric won’t take it anymore, you know. Well,” he gives Draco’s narrow waist an accusing look, “you don’t know, I suppose.” 

Draco hums noncommittally. He lets his fingers wander across Theo’s torso, settling on his love handles, which fit nicely into Draco’s hands.

Theo clears his throat, bowing his head slightly and looking at Draco through his lashes. “So ... there’s a chance I’ve put on a few.”

Draco squeezes his soft hips. He follows Theo’s love handles all the way around to his back and runs his nails along the soft skin there. “Perhaps.”

“Maybe I should cut back a bit,” Theo continues. “After Christmas. And by that I mean in January, obviously, because the last week of December doesn’t count.” He rests a hand on the widest part of his belly and, if Draco were being honest with himself, he might admit that the sight is desperately hard to look away from.

He says, “If that’s what you want. You know I don’t mind either way.”

“Is that so?” Theo’s blue eyes are twinkling. “You don’t _mind_ all this, eh, Draco? You liked me when I was skinny, though. Maybe you’d prefer that?” He grasps a generous handful of his lower belly and gives it a shake, causing the rest of his stomach to ripple. Draco’s brain just about short-circuits. “Maybe I’ll try to shift a bit of this?” 

“If you — if you want.” He tries to sound cool, airy, indifferent, as if Theo doesn’t completely and utterly _have_ him, as if every word out of his mouth isn’t sending pricks of electricity over his skin and the room isn’t suddenly swelteringly hot. “I’ll be very supportive. Refuse to cook you anything.”

“Try saying that with a little more conviction, Draco.” Theo leans closer, his fingers teasing at Draco’s waistband and lower. He murmurs, “Try and pretend you don’t get a kick out of me eating your food, you kinky bastard.” 

“I… it’s not... _Theo!”_ Draco protests, as Theo’s smirk grows more pronounced. “You’re the one who’s too fat for your clothes,” he chokes out eventually. “I should be making fun of _you.”_

“Nah.” Theo deftly unbuttons Draco’s trousers and pulls the zip down, smirking at Draco’s whines for him to hurry up. “Definitely more fun this way around.”

*

“Draco!”

Draco groans, rolling over in bed away from the sound of Theo’s excitable chirping.

“It’s snowing. On Christmas Eve. This never happens.”

Draco groans again but sits up in bed, huddling in the blankets, peering at the wisps of white through the glass. 

Theo pulls a jumper over his head. “Are you seriously choosing a lie-in over _snow,_ Draco?”

And somehow Draco finds himself being dragged out of bed on Christmas Eve morning to take a walk with Theo and Mara. 

It isn’t exactly a picture-perfect amount of snow, laying thickly on the ground and crunching beneath their feet and covering the landscape in a pure white blanket. It’s more like ‘British weather trying its best’, a feeble layer of snow with spikes of grass poking through that will turn to greying slush soon enough. 

But the flutter of snowflakes through the air is fairly charming, Draco supposes, and the way they settle in Theo’s dark curls is even more so. He’s bundled up in a thick cloak and a grey-and-blue scarf that is, possibly, one of his less repulsive ones. 

It’s early enough that the park is practically deserted when they arrive, aside from a handful of other dog walkers. Draco lets Mara off her lead and she shoots off in the direction of an old chestnut tree she’s particularly fond of, barking happily. 

Before he knows what’s happening, something cold and wet hits him on the shoulder. He emits an undignified squeak of surprise and turns around to find Theo giving him a look of utmost innocence.

“You absolute _shit,”_ Draco splutters, half laughing, half incensed, brushing snow fruitlessly off his cloak. It was a fairly pitiful snowball, due to the lack of actual snow available, and was half made up of grass and dirt, most of which is now in Draco’s hair.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Theo says.

Draco stalks over to him, meets his mischievous blue eyes. “You’re lucky I love you,” he says, “and therefore overlook how bloody irritating you are.”

The smirk is wiped clean from Theo’s face. His jaw visibly slackens. “Draco. You...”

“You heard me perfectly well, Theodore. You know exactly how irritating I find you.”

Theo smiles, a little crooked. He grabs Draco’s waist and pulls him close. Draco feels the push of his heavy stomach between them, and he presses in a little further. The snow flutters around their heads, and Theo leans in to kiss him.

“I love you too, you little shit.”

*

Last year, most of Draco’s Christmas had been spent alone in his flat with Mara, with a brief interlude for dinner at the Manor with his mother, picking through overcooked vegetables and making stilted conversation.

This year, he and Theo get up early to put the turkey in the oven, then enjoy a breakfast of bacon sandwiches on thick white bread, and the hot chocolate Draco whips up with a sickening amount of sugar. Daphne kisses them both and wishes them a Merry Christmas, shocking all concerned by accepting the mug of hot chocolate Draco offers her and spooning on extra whipped cream. 

Draco’s Christmas dinner is a triumph, if he does say so himself. By mid-afternoon, he and Theo are sprawled on the sofa in a comfortable post-food haze, full and sleepy and satisfied. He runs a hand over Theo’s belly, by this time a firm, round globe, which certainly isn’t a surprise after the amount of food he managed to put away. Even Draco had been forced to unbutton his trousers after dinner; Daphne had actually gone upstairs to sleep hers off.

“So, after all your complaining, you approved of the Christmas pudding.” Draco looks pointedly at the bowl in Theo's hands, scraped clean, where once there had been a hefty chunk of pudding, generously slathered in brandy butter. “In other words, I was right.”

“It wasn’t too bad, I suppose.” Theo shifts on the couch, leaning back, trying to give his belly more room. “I might be biased, though, seeing as I’m sleeping with the chef.” 

_“Wasn’t too bad,”_ Draco repeats, his hand moving instinctively to Theo's stomach, nimble fingers working to knead out some of the tightness. “So bloody ungrateful.”

“I might have seconds.” Theo looks down into his empty bowl, contemplative, then glances up at Draco with a wolfish grin. “It’s definitely growing on me.”

“You can say that again,” Draco murmurs, giving his tummy a pinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you're celebrating anything this month, I hope you have a good one, and if not, I hope you have a great December regardless.


End file.
